#j.writing

Uruha Yoji's hands used to touch you as though you were precious enough to break. You were not delicate, and he knew it; so the sentiment came not from his held belief of your frailty. There had never been much hesitation in his seeking of you, only gentleness and awe.

A strange thing, you supposed, for hands that had known so much blood to settle upon you with a care that bordered on devotion. Every time he reached for you, you felt chosen anew; never once for what you could do for him, but because he accepted the burden of walking beside you. It was such a small distinction—you wondered if anyone beside yourself had ever noticed it. His hand never came to claim; his caress was that of quiet gratitude, fingertips brushing against you with all the solemnity of accepting an oath.

Only trust.

You had loved him for that—how unbearable that memory had become.

That young man's touch was firmer, hungrier, holding you like something to be prized, and you wondered whether Uruha missed the feeling of you as much as you missed the rare occasions when laughter would escape him and the way excitement would bloom across that ordinarily focused face.

You wished—

No.

You had wished. There was little comfort in wishing anymore. Yet, still, you imagine your sword bearer's hand finding yours once more as you stood against him.

Mayhap not the root of all evil, but certainly the root of all inconvenience undoubtedly would harbour Nagumo Yoichi.

The space you were trapped in—an alcove that could not have been more than four feet wide, the shelves having collapsed in response to his pestering you—belonged to the monastery's library.

people clutching flowers hopefully at arrivals,

people crying quietly as they call loved ones before boarding,

people tearing up hugging each other before the security gate,

safe flight, call me when you land, try and get some rest, i’ll see you soon, it won’t be too long, i love you,

people sleeping on their suitcases, people comforting their children who stare wide eyed at the airplanes out the windows, people running frantically as their names blare over loudspeakers, people picking out presents from overpriced gift shops but that’s okay because their partner would love this keychain, people buying melatonin for $24.99,

"Where are those muffinheads?"

"Does it matter? As long as we have their instruments, and we do, we can just pick them up on our way to Verden."

"Yeah no I know I know but they should still be here."

"The only reason I'm here is because I passed out on the couch. It's like 6 AM, chill."

"Yeah yeah okay, then why's Ozreez here?" "Because Ozreez is the only one of us with a stable sleep schedule."

"You sure?"

"... yes"

Clunk, clunk, clunk, and the sound of heavy panting enter the garage with white hair fluffed over thick crescent horns and stone skin, "Okay," gasp, "I've managed to get," gasp, "Vera's sound system," gasp, "from the living room."

"Ozzy my man! You go lie down, I'll load it into the van."

"Oh," breathing, lighter now, "yeah, thanks." Ozreez starts to lay down on the floor before a pastel shoe nudges his knee.

"I ment like, on the couch mate. It's too early for this no matter how horrifically well adjusted your sleep schedule is."

"I- yeah. yeah. Thanks, Dianki."

"No problem with it bossman. Go, shoo." Ozreez shoes squeak across the garage floor, and the door shuts behind him.

"You're right."

Dianki turns around, "About what? I mean I'm always right but what's it this time?"

"It is way too early."

"Told ya Cisrot. You wanna go lay down too? I can get the rest, it's a nonissue."

"I'd say you're a saint but not with that mouth of yours." "Get it right ya muffinhead I'm an angel."

"Oh boy howdy I can see the reason you got stuck on earth." "Oh shut up, go take a nap." Dianki lightly shoves Cisrot and with that the door closes a second time.

"Oh muffin, I just volunteered to do so much manual labor."

-

Cisrot wakes up, and brushes her short pink hair out of her eyes and trudges her eyes towards the clock.

"S... eight?" she mumbles blearily as she wipes the sleep out of her eyes.

"Yup." A voice says from behind her causing her to jump slightly in her sleep.

"Mother of muffins don’t scare me like that."

“Well then why’dya ask?”

“I was talking to myself, Pansy! I swear the amount of disrespect from you!”

“No ‘un ever told me ya were s'posed to be respected. ‘N in my opinion ya really shouldn’t be either. ‘M not in debt to ya, you know tha’.”

“Oh hush up, I was joking.”

“... sure mate. Sure,” Panzeu laughed and twisted a strand of wild mauve hair around her finger, “‘nyways, Verata’s here too. Pretty much e’rythin’s ready, that is ‘cept for you yourself sleepyhorns.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. At least my horns don’t get caught on the blankets. If you were the one napping I’d have to buy a new one.”

“I’d say I’ve never heard truer but I’d be lyin’. Now go get dressed mate so we can get everythin’ organized ‘n’ such.”

“Alright alright. Oh wait, is Xhetek here too?”

“I think so, why?”

Cisrot squealed just a bit, “Don’t you know Panny? She makes the best breakfast! Could you please tell her to help out with that? I’d go to the hockey rink and back to have some Xhetek burritos on the trip!”

“Mhm, yeah I could sure try. Now shoo mate. Go get ready, you have nap breath.”

-

Xhetek fussed with the hem of her skirt while she sat on some tires, listening to Dianki explain to Ozreez how to pack stuff in the car most efficiently, quickly turning the whole thing into something of a tetris match. She was thinking about how the trip to Verden was going to go, knowing there was supposedly a magic storm passing just before they were supposed to arrive.

“Gosh I really hope we don’t get caught in that…'' She quietly muttered to herself, twisting the bead band she wore near the top of her horns. Wild magic storms were one of the more dangerous weather phenomena, usually taking place around the southernmost continents, but sometimes a light atmospheric disruption could easily send one elsewhere. Wild magic storms could easily send you elsewhere too. People say those who get caught and ‘displaced’ rarely return. Who knows what could happen if they ran through it, they could rapidly age, they could never be able to play music again, they could- CRASH! Xhetek was snapped out of her swirling thoughts.

“See, this is what happens when you fail trunk tetris Ozzy.” Dianki gestured to the suitcase and bag piles now laying on the cement floor.

“Are the instruments alright?” Xhetek nervously piped up from her place slightly off in the corner.

“Yeah, don’t worry Tek,” Dianki wheezed while picking up one of the suitcases, “we’re saving the instruments last so they don't get squished or nothing.”

“Oh, alright! That’s plenty smart.” She smiled lightly to herself. “Everything’s going to turn out okay.” She repeated in her head. “It’s all going to be okay.”

-

“Oh muffin please tell me everythings okay.” Panzeu thought, concerned over the loud noises from the garage. “‘M gonna hafta check on tha’ ain’t I?” She sighed to an empty room. “Yup, alright. ‘Course I am. Nothin’ spooky in the garage…” she muttered as she crept through the halls towards the garage, “nothin’ spooky at all… nope.” She slowly twisted the knob. Pushing the door open, she called out “‘S everythin’ alright in ‘ere?”

“Yup! Just some packing issues!”

Oh thank god, Dianki’s voice. Nothing spooky in her clear, bright tone. Panzeu ventured further into the garage, dragging boots over cement steps. Surveying the area, she caught Xhetek sitting in the corner, and meandered over.

“... Need somethin’ to do?” She asked, kicking her boots together a bit.

“Probably. Not doing anything too useful here, I don’t think. Worrywarting in the corner is all.” She laughed a bit, fluffing her short forest hair.

“Cisrot sent me to kin’a… ask you to cook breakfast perchance? Said you make a real mean burrito if that sounds o’ any interest to you yourself.”

“Sounds useful, I’ll get on it.” Xhetek stood, patted off her skirt, and headed towards the kitchen.

-

All congregated around the garage entrance, keeping watch.

“Any signs of ‘er?”

“No… Nothing yet.”

Light footsteps could be heard behind them, but all were too focused on the street in front of them.

“Boo.” A lace gloved hand tapped Cisrot on the shoulder.

“AH!” She stumbled back in shock, “Verata! Are you okay? Why are you so muffin late?! Don’t scare me like that!” she interrogated, slapping the cerulean hand off her shoulder.

“Yeah, sorry for that my friends. I slept in, and then my umbrella was quite hidden. I hope I didn’t make anyone worry too much.” She then twirled her black lace parasol with a flourish and sighed.

“It’s all good Vera! We got everything ready so hand me your suitcase and we’ll pack it, then we can go!” Dianki smiled and took the bag from Verata’s outstretched hand.

ART CREDIT: MYSELF @im-illegal-art

FEATURED OCS:

sfw:

balance: umeko/mc - 3 pages

sugar high: hanbei/mc - 4 pages

sanctuary: mitsunari/mc (ptsd comfort fic) - 4 pages

once a year: mitsunari/mc (birthday fic) - 3 pages

in between?

difficult little devil: ieyasu/mc - 3 pages

nsfw:

twice as nice: masamune/mc/kojuro - 18 pages

jealous jealous jealous girl: kojuro/mc - 7 pages

warm hands, warm heart: kojuro/mc - 4 pages

dirty little secret: shigezane/mc - 7 pages

good boy p1: yukimura/mc - 14 pages

good boy p2: yukimura/mc - 8 pages

4 times/1 time: saizo/mc - 21 pages

With every blind step you take forward, knowing where to go only by the hand grasping yours and leading you, your apprehension grows. Lord Nobunaga is full of surprises; you’ve known this for a long time, and have learned to go along with his whims. It’s just that his surprises are often hard to accept.

Soon, the sound of a door sliding open reaches your ears. Nobunaga leads you through into what you can tell is his room by the scent, but something about it seems… off.

He steps behind you and removes the blindfold.

“Well?” Nobunaga asks, smugness and excitement fighting behind his smile, though he speaks with affected detachment. “What do you think?”

His chambers are lit with a multitude of glowing candles, dusk encroaching on the perimeters of the rippling blotches of light and bringing with it the whisper of night flowers. The slightly acrid smell of smoke and heat from the candles is tinged with something floral; on closer inspection, countless roses have been shredded, their petals shivering on the floor and over the bedding.

“Well?” Nobunaga prompts again. His face flickers with the candles. You know he’s waiting for a reaction, has an expectation already in his head, but the only one that’s coming naturally to you at the moment is bemusement.

“It’s… nice?” you finally say, cautiously. The dim, guttering light makes it hard to read his expression, so to help you along, Nobunaga huffs.

“It’s romantic,” he says. The way the word drops from his lips makes it clear to you that there is to be no arguing this: Lord Nobunaga has declared it romantic, so it is. The voice he uses is one that has ordered wars into being, and finds it a trifling matter to speak sentimental gestures into truth.

“It’s for you,” he says. These words don’t so much drop from his lips as float from them, gently, down to you. The voice he uses is one that has murmured in that soft, dove-grey time between dreaming and waking; it has spoken feelings into being.

“For me…?” you say. These words meet, simply, with his. The voice you use is one that you’ve never heard before.

You look again at the arrangement of candles, surely meant to be warm and atmospheric, and the way the flower petals seem to form a path that starts at your feet -- the spot to which Nobunaga himself had lead you. Though everything about it is somewhat clumsy, that’s what marks it as Nobunaga’s work. You picture how deftly capable his hands are when using weapons; you picture that same precision being applied to the careful dissembling of flowers to make a petal path for you to walk.